The Street of Seven Stars by Mary Roberts Rinehart

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even peered through the doors of shops here and there, hopingwhile he feared that the girl might be seeking employment within,as she had before in the early days of the winter.

Because of his stature and powerful physique, and perhaps, too,because of the wretchedness in his eyes, people noticed him.There was one place where Peter lingered, where a new buildingwas being erected, and where because of the narrowness of thepassage the dense crowd was thinned as it passed. He stood bychoice outside a hairdresser's window, where a brilliant lightshone on each face that passed.

Inside the clerks had noticed him. Two of them standing togetherby the desk spoke of him: "He is there again, the gray man!"

"Ah, so! But, yes, there is his back!"

"Poor one, it is the Fraulein Engel he waits to see, perhaps."

"More likely Le Grande, the American. He is American."

"He is Russian. Look at his size."

"But his shoes!" triumphantly. "They are American, little one."

The third girl had not spoken; she was wrapping in tissue a greatgolden rose made for the hair. She placed it in a box carefully.

"I think he is of the police," she said, "or a spy. There is muchtalk of war."

"Foolishness! Does a police officer sigh always? Or a spy havesuch sadness in his face? And he grows thin and white."

"The rose, Fraulein."

The clerk who had wrapped up the flower held it out to thecustomer. The customer, however, was not looking. She was gazingwith strange intentness at the back of a worn gray overcoat. Thenwith a curious clutch at her heart she went white. Harmony, ofcourse, Harmony come to fetch the golden rose that was tocomplete Le Grande's costume.

She recovered almost at once and made an excuse to leave byanother exit.

She took a final look at the gray sleeve that was all she couldsee of Peter, who had shifted a bit, and stumbled out into thecrowd, walking along with her lip trembling under her veil, andwith the slow and steady ache at her heart that she had thoughtshe had stilled for good.

It had never occurred to Harmony that Peter loved her. He hadproposed to her twice, but that had been in each case to solve adifficulty for her. And once he had taken her in his arms, butthat was different. Even then he had not said he loved her--hadnot even known it, to be exact. Nor had Harmony realized whatPeter meant to her until she had put him out of her life.

The sight of the familiar gray coat, the scrap of conversation,so enlightening as to poor Peter's quest, that Peter was growingthin and white, made her almost reel. She had been too occupiedwith her own position to realize Peter's. With the glimpse of himcame a great longing for the house on the Siebensternstrasse, forJimmy's arms about her neck, for the salon with the lamp lightedand the sleet beating harmlessly against the casement windows,for the little kitchen with the brick stove, for Peter.

Doubts of the wisdom of her course assailed her. But to go backmeant, at the best, adding to Peter's burden of Jimmy and Marie,meant the old situation again, too, for Marie most certainly didnot add to the respectability of the establishment. And otherdoubts assailed her. What if Jimmy were not so well, should die,as was possible, and she had not let his mother see him!

Monia Reiff was very busy that day. Harmony did not leave theworkroom until eight o'clock. During all that time, while herslim fingers worked over fragile laces and soft chiffons, she wasseeing Jimmy as she had seen him last, with the flower fairies onhis pillow, and Peter, keeping watch over the crowd in theKarntnerstrasse, looking with his steady eyes for her.

No part of the city was safe for a young girl after night, sheknew; the sixteenth district was no better than the rest, ratherworse in places. But the longing to see the house on theSiebensternstrasse grew on her, became from an ache a sharp andinsistent pain. She must go, must see once again the comfortableglow of Peter's lamp, the flicker that was the fire.

She ate no supper. She was too tired to eat, and there was thepain. She put on her wraps and crept down the whitewashedstaircase.

The paved courtyard below was to be crossed and it was poorlylighted. She achieved the street, however, without molestation.To the street-car was only a block, but during that block she wasaccosted twice. She was white and frightened when she reached thecar.

The Siebensternstrasse at last. The street was always dark; thedelicatessen shop was closed, but in the wild-game store next alight was burning low, and a flame flickered before the littleshrine over the money drawer. The gameseller was a religious man.

The old stucco house dominated the neighborhood. From the timeshe left the car Harmony saw it, its long flat roof black againstthe dark sky, its rows of unlighted windows, its long wall brokenin the center by the gate. Now from across the street its wholefacade lay before her. Peter's lamp was not lighted, but therewas a glow of soft firelight from the salon windows. The lightwas not regular--it disappeared at regular intervals, was blottedout. Harmony knew what that meant. Some one beyond range of whereshe stood was pacing the floor, back and forward, back andforward. When he was worried or anxious Peter always paced thedoor.

She did not know how long she stood there. One of the soft rainswas falling, or more accurately, condensing. The saturated airwas hardly cold. She stood on the pavement unmolested, while theglow died lower and lower, until at last it was impossible totrace the pacing figure. No one came to any of the windows. Thelittle lamp before the shrine in the wild-game shop burned itselfout; the Portier across the way came to the door, glanced up atthe sky and went in. Harmony heard the rattle of the chain as itwas stretched across the door inside.

Not all the windows of the suite opened on the street. Jimmy'swindows--and Peter's--opened toward the back of the house, wherein a brick-paved courtyard the wife of the Portier hung herwashing, and where the Portier himself kept a hutch of rabbits. Awild and reckless desire to see at least the light from thechild's room possessed Harmony. Even the light would besomething; to go like this, to carry with her only the memory ofa dark looming house without cheer was unthinkable. The gate wasnever locked. If she but went into the garden and round by thespruce tree to the back of the house, it would be something.

She knew the garden quite well. Even the darkness had no horrorfor her. Little Scatchy had had a habit of leaving variousarticles on her window-sill and of instigating searches for themat untimely hours of night. Once they had found her hairbrush inthe rabbit hutch! So Harmony, ashamed but unalarmed, made her wayby the big spruce to the corner of the old lodge and thus to thecourtyard.

Ah, this was better! Lights all along the apartment floor andmoving shadows; on Jimmy's window-sill a jar of milk. Andvoices--some one was singing.

Peter was singing, droning softly, as one who puts a drowsy childto sleep. Slower and slower, softer and softer, over and over,the little song Harmony had been wont to sing:--

"Ah well! For us all some sweet hope liesDeeply buried from human eyes.And in the--hereafter--angels mayRoll--the--stone--from--its--grave--away."

Slower and slower, softer and softer, until it died awayaltogether. Peter, in his old dressing-gown, came to the windowand turned down the gaslight beside it to a blue point. Harmonydid not breathe. For a minute, two minutes, he stood therelooking out. Far off the twin clocks of the Votivkirche struckthe hour. All about lay the lights of the old city, so very old,so wise, so cunning, so cold.

Peter stood looking out, as he had each night since Harmony wentaway. Each night he sang the boy to sleep, turned down the lightand stood by the window. And each night he whispered to the citythat sheltered Harmony somewhere, what he had whispered to thelittle sweater coat the night before he went away:--

"Good-night, dear. Good-night, Harmony."

The rabbits stirred uneasily in the hutch; a passing gust shookthe great tree overhead and sent down a sharp shower on to thebricks below. Peter struck a match and lit his pipe; theflickering light illuminated his face, his rough hair, his steadyeyes.

"Good-night, Peter," whispered Harmony. "Good-night, dear."

CHAPTER XXIV

Walter Stewart had made an uncomplicated recovery, helped alongby relief at the turn events had taken. In a few days he wasgoing about again, weak naturally, rather handsomer than beforebecause a little less florid. But the week's confinement hadgiven him an opportunity to think over many things. Peter had sethim thinking, on the day when he had packed up the last ofMarie's small belongings and sent them down to Vienna.

Stewart, lying in bed, had watched him. "Just how much talk doyou suppose this has made, Byrne?" he asked.

"Haven't an idea. Some probably. The people in the Russian villasaw it, you know."

Stewart's brows contracted.

"Damnation! Then the hotel has it, of course!"

"Probably."

Stewart groaned. Peter closed Marie's American trunk of which shehad been so proud, and coming over looked down at the injuredman.

"Don't you think you'd better tell the girl all about it?"

"No," doggedly.

"I know, of course, it wouldn't be easy, but--you can't get awaywith it, Stewart. That's one way of looking at it. There'sanother."

"What's that?"

"Starting with a clean slate. If she's the sort you want tomarry, and not a prude, she'll understand, not at first, butafter she gets used to it."

"She wouldn't understand in a thousand years."

"Then you'd better not marry her. You know, Stewart, I have anidea that women imagine a good many pretty rotten things aboutus, anyhow. A sensible girl would rather know the truth and bedone with it. What a man has done with his life before agirl--the right girl--comes into it isn't a personal injury toher, since she wasn't a part of his life then. You know what Imean. But she has a right to know it before she chooses."

"How many would choose under those circumstances?" he jibed.

Peter smiled. "Quite a few," he said cheerfully. "It's a wrongsystem, of course; but we can get a little truth out of it."

"You can't get away with it" stuck in Stewart's mind for severaldays. It was the one thing Peter said that did stick. And beforeStewart had recovered enough to be up and about he had made uphis mind to tell Anita. In his mind he made quite a case forhimself; he argued the affair against his conscience and came outvictorious.

Anita's party had broken up. The winter sports did not compare,they complained, with St. Moritz. They disliked German cooking.Into the bargain the weather was not good; the night's snowsturned soft by midday; and the crowds that began to throng thehotels were solid citizens, not the fashionables of the Riviera.Anita's arm forbade her traveling. In the reassembling of theparty she went to the Kurhaus in the valley below the pensionwith one of the women who wished to take the baths.

It was to the Kurhaus, then, that Stewart made his firstexcursion after the accident. He went to dinner. Part of thechaperon's treatment called for an early retiring hour, which washighly as he had wished it and rather unnerving after all. A manmay decide that a dose of poison is the remedy for all histroubles, but he does not approach his hour with any hilarity.Stewart was a stupid dinner guest, ate very little, and lookedhaggard beyond belief when the hour came for the older woman toleave.

He did not lack courage however. It was his great asset, physicaland mental rather than moral, but courage nevertheless. Theevening was quiet, and they elected to sit on the balcony outsideAnita's sitting room, the girl swathed in white furs and leaningback in her steamer chair.

Below lay the terrace of the Kurhaus, edged with evergreen trees.Beyond and far below that was the mountain village, a fewscattered houses along a frozen stream. The townspeople retiredearly; light after light was extinguished, until only one in thepriest's house remained. A train crept out of one tunnel and intoanother, like a glowing worm crawling from burrow to burrow.

The girl felt a change in Stewart. During the weeks he had knownher there had been a curious restraint in his manner to her.There were times when an avowal seemed to tremble on his lips,when his eyes looked into hers with the look no women evermistakes; the next moment he would glance away, his face wouldharden. They were miles apart. And perhaps the situation hadpiqued the girl. Certainly it had lost nothing for her by itsunusualness.

To-night there was a difference in the man. His eyes met herssquarely, without evasion, but with a new quality, a searching,perhaps, for something in her to give him courage. The girl hadcharacter, more than ordinary decision. It was what Stewartadmired in her most, and the thing, of course, that the littleMarie had lacked. Moreover, Anita, barely twenty, was a woman,not a young girl. Her knowledge of the world, not so deep asMarie's, was more comprehensive. Where Marie would have beenmerciful, Anita would be just, unless she cared for him. In thatcase she might be less than just, or more.

Anita in daylight was a pretty young woman, rather incisive ofspeech, very intelligent, having a wit without malice, charmingto look at, keenly alive. Anita in the dusk of the balcony,waiting to hear she knew not what, was a judicial white goddess,formidably still, frightfully potential. Stewart, who hadembraced many women, did not dare a finger on her arm.

He had decided on a way to tell the girl the story--a preambleabout his upbringing, which had been indifferent, his struggle toget to Vienna, his loneliness there, all leading with inevitablesteps to Marie. From that, if she did not utterly shrink fromhim, to his love for her.

It was his big hour, that hour on the balcony. He was reaching,through love, heights of honesty he had never scaled before. Butas a matter of fact he reversed utterly his order of procedure.The situation got him, this first evening absolutely alone withher. That and her nearness, and the pathos of her bandaged,useless arm. Still he had not touched her.

The thing he was trying to do was more difficult for that.General credulity to the contrary, men do not often make spokenlove first. How many men propose marriage to their women acrossthe drawing-room or from chair to chair? Absurd! The eyes speakfirst, then the arms, the lips last. The woman is in his armsbefore he tells his love. It is by her response that he gaugeshis chances and speaks of marriage. Actually the thing is alreadysettled; tardy speech only follows on swift instinct. Stewart,wooing as men woo, would have taken the girl's hand, gained anencouragement from it, ventured to kiss it, perhaps, and findingno rebuff would then and there have crushed her to him; What needof words? They would follow in due time, not to make a situationbut to clarify it.

But he could not woo as men woo. The barrier of his own weaknessstood between them and must be painfully taken down.

"I'm afraid this is stupid for you," said Anita out of thesilence. "Would you like to go to the music-room?"

"God forbid. I was thinking."

"Of what?" Encouragement this, surely.

"I was thinking how you had come into my life, and stirred itup."

"Really? I?"

"You know that."

"How did I stir it up?"

"That's hardly the way I meant to put it. You've changedeverything for me. I care for you--a very great deal."

He was still carefully in hand, his voice steady. And still hedid not touch her. Other men had made love to her, but never inthis fashion, or was he making love?

"I'm very glad you like me."

"Like you!" Almost out of hand that time. The thrill in his voicewas unmistakable. "It's much more than that, Anita, so much morethat I'm going to try to do a hideously hard thing. Will you helpa little?"

"Yes, if I can." She was stirred, too, and rather frightened.

Stewart drew his chair nearer to her and sat forward, his faceset and dogged.

"The branch of a tree was thrown out in front of the sled to sendus over the bank. It was murder, if intention is crime."

After a brief silence--

"Somebody who wished to kill you, or me?"

"Both of us, I believe. It was done by a woman--a girl, Anita. Agirl I had been living with."

A brutal way to tell her, no doubt, but admirably courageous. Forhe was quivering with dread when he said it--the courage of theman who faces a cannon. And here, where a less-poised woman wouldhave broken into speech, Anita took the refuge of her kind andwas silent. Stewart watched her as best he could in the darkness,trying to gather further courage to go on. He could not see herface, but her fingers, touching the edge of the chair, quivered.

"May I tell you the rest?"

"I don't think I want to hear it."

"Are you going to condemn me unheard?"

"There isn't anything you can say against the fact?"

But there was much to say, and sitting there in the darkness hemade his plea. He made no attempt to put his case. He told whathad happened simply; he told of his loneliness and discomfort.And he emphasized the lack of sentiment that prompted thearrangement.

Anita spoke then for the first time: "And when you tried toterminate it she attempted to kill you!"

"I was acting the beast. I brought her up here, and thenneglected her for you."

"Then it was hardly only a business arrangement for her."

"It was at first. I never dreamed of any thing else. I swearthat, Anita. But lately, in the last month or two, she--I supposeI should have seen that she--"

"That she had fallen in love with you. How old is she?"

"Nineteen."

A sudden memory came to Anita, of a slim young girl, who hadwatched her with wide, almost childish eyes.

"Then it was she who was in the compartment with you on the traincoming up?"

"Yes."

"Where is she now?"

"In Vienna. I have not heard from her. Byrne, the chap who cameup to see me after the--after the accident, sent her away. Ithink he's looking after her. I haven't heard from him."

"Why did you tell me all this?"

"Because I love you, Anita. I want you to marry me."

"What! After that?"

"That, or something similar, is in many men's lives. They don'ttell it, that's the difference. I 'm not taking any credit fortelling you this. I'm ashamed to the bottom of my soul, and whenI look at your bandaged arm I'm suicidal. Peter Byrne urged me totell you. He said I couldn't get away with it; some time or otherit would come out. Then he said something else. He said you'dprobably understand, and that if you married me it was better tostart with a clean slate."

No love, no passion in the interview now. A clear statement offact, an offer--his past against hers, his future with hers. Herhand was steady now. The light in the priest's house had beenextinguished. The chill of the mountain night penetrated Anita'swhite furs; and set her--or was it the chill?--to shivering.

"If I had not told you, would you have married me?"

"I think so. I'll be honest, too. Yes."

"I am the same man you would have married. Only--more honest."

"I cannot argue about it. I am tired and cold."

Stewart glanced across the valley to where the cluster of villashugged the mountain-side There was a light in his room; outsidewas the little balcony where Marie had leaned against the railingand looked down, down. Some of the arrogance of his new virtueleft the man. He was suddenly humbled. For the first time herealized a part of what Marie had endured in that small roomwhere the light burned.

"Poor little Marie!" he said softly.

The involuntary exclamation did more for him than any plea hecould have made. Anita rose and held out her hand.

"Go and see her," she said quietly. "You owe her that. We'll beleaving here in a day or so and I'll not see you again. Butyou've been honest, and I will be honest, too. I--I cared a greatdeal, too."

"And this has killed it?"

"I hardly comprehend it yet. I shall have to have time to think."

"But if you are going away--I'm afraid to leave you. You'll thinkthis thing over, alone, and all the rules of life you've beentaught will come--"

"Please, I must think. I will write you, I promise."

He caught her hand and crushed it between both of his.

"I suppose you would rather I did not kiss you?" humbly.

"I do not want you to kiss me."

He released her hand and stood looking down at her in thedarkness. If he could only have crushed her to him, made her feelthe security of his love, of his sheltering arms! But the barrierof his own building was between them. His voice was husky.

"I want you to try to remember, past what I have told you, to thething that concerns us both--I love you. I never loved the otherwoman. I never pretended I loved her. And there will be nothingmore like that."

"I shall try to remember."

Anita left Semmering the next day, against the protests of thedoctor and the pleadings of the chaperon. She did not see Stewartagain. But before she left, with the luggage gone and the fiacreat the door, she went out on the terrace, and looked across tothe Villa Waldheim, rising from among its clustering trees.Although it was too far to be certain, she thought she saw thefigure of a man on the little balcony standing with folded arms,gazing across the valley to the Kurhaus.

Having promised to see Marie, Stewart proceeded to carry out hispromise in his direct fashion. He left Semmering the evening ofthe following day, for Vienna. The strain of the confession wasover, but he was a victim of sickening dread. To one thing onlyhe dared to pin his hopes. Anita had said she cared, cared agreat deal. And, after all, what else mattered? The story hadbeen a jolt, he told himself. Girls were full of queer ideas ofright and wrong, bless them! But she cared. She cared!

He arrived in Vienna at nine o'clock that night. The imminence ofhis interview with Marie hung over him like a cloud. He ate ahurried supper, and calling up the Doctors' Club by telephonefound Peter's address in the Siebensternstrasse. He had no idea,of course, that Marie was there. He wanted to see Peter to learnwhere Marie had taken refuge, and incidentally to get from Petera fresh supply of moral courage for the interview. For he neededcourage. In vain on the journey down had he clothed himself inarmor of wrath against the girl; the very compartment in thetrain provoked softened memories of her. Here they had bought aluncheon, there Marie had first seen the Rax. Again at thisstation she had curled up and put her head on his shoulder for anap. Ah, but again, at this part of the journey he had first seenAnita!

He took a car to the Siebensternstrasse. His idea of Peter'smanner of living those days was exceedingly vague. He hadrespected Peter's reticence, after the manner of men with eachother. Peter had once mentioned a boy he was looking after, inexcuse for leaving so soon after the accident. That was all.

The house on the Siebensternstrasse loomed large and unlighted.The street was dark, and it was only after a search that Stewartfound the gate. Even then he lost the path, and found himselfamong a group of trees, to touch the lowest branches of any ofwhich resulted in a shower of raindrops. To add to his discomfortsome one was walking in the garden, coming toward him with light,almost stealthy steps.

Stewart by his tree stood still, waiting. The steps approached,were very close, were beside him. So intense was the darknessthat even then all he saw was a blacker shadow, and that wasvisible only because it moved. Then a hand touched his arm,stopped as if paralyzed, drew back slowly, fearfully.

"Good Heavens!" said poor Harmony faintly.

"Please don't be alarmed. I have lost the path." Stewart's voicewas almost equally nervous. "Is it to the right or the left?"

It was a moment before Harmony had breath to speak. Then:--

"To the right a dozen paces or so."

"Thank you. Perhaps I can help you to find it."

"I know it quite well. Please don't bother."

The whole situation was so unexpected that only then did it dawnon Stewart that this blacker shadow was a countrywoman speakingGod's own language. Together, Harmony a foot or so in advance,they made the path.

"The house is there. Ring hard, the bell is out of order."

"Are you not coming in?"

"No. I--I do not live here."

She must have gone just after that. Stewart, glancing at the darkfacade of the house, turned round to find her gone, and a momentlater heard the closing of the gate. He was bewildered. What sortof curious place was this, a great looming house that concealedin its garden a fugitive American girl who came and went like ashadow, leaving only the memory of a sweet voice strained withfright?

Stewart was full of his encounter as he took the candle thePortier gave him and followed the gentleman's gruff directions upthe staircase. Peter admitted him, looking a trifle uneasy, aswell he might with Marie in the salon.

Stewart was too preoccupied to notice Peter's expression. Heshook the rain off his hat, smiling.

"How are you?" asked Peter dutifully.

"Pretty good, except for a headache when I'm tired. What sort ofa place have you got here anyhow, Byrne?"

"Ran into one just now among the trees. 'A woman I forswore, butthou being a goddess I forswore not thee.' English-speakinggoddess, by George!"

Peter was staring at him incredulously; now he bent forward andgrasped his arm in fingers of steel.

"For Heaven's sake, Stewart, tell me what you mean! Who was inthe garden?"

Stewart was amused and interested. It was not for him to belittlea situation of his own making, an incident of his own telling.

"I lost my way in your garden, wandered among the trees, brokethrough a hedgerow or two, struck a match and consulted thecompass--"

Peter's fingers closed.

"Quick," he said.

Stewart's manner lost its jauntiness.

"There was a girl there," he said shortly. "Couldn't see her. Shespoke English. Said she didn't live here, and broke for the gatethe minute I got to the path."

"You didn't see her?"

"No. Nice voice, though. Young."

The next moment he was alone. Peter in his dressing-gown wasrunning down the staircase to the lower floor, was shouting tothe Portier to unlock the door, was a madman in everything butpurpose. The Portier let him out and returned to the bedroom.

"The boy above is worse," he said briefly. "A strange doctor hasjust come, and but now the Herr Doktor Byrne runs to the drugstore."

The Portier's wife shrugged her shoulders even while tears filledher eyes.

"What can one expect?" she demanded. "The good Herr Gott hasforbidden theft and Rosa says the boy was stolen. Also thedruggist has gone to visit his wife's mother."

"Perhaps I may be of service; I shall go up."

"And see for a moment that hussy of the streets! Remain here. Ishall go."

Slowly and ponderously she climbed the stairs.

Stewart, left alone, wandered along the dim corridor. He foundPeter's excitement rather amusing. So this was where Peter lived,an old house, isolated in a garden where rambled young women withsoft voices. Hello, a youngster asleep! The boy, no doubt.

He wandered on toward the lighted door of the salon and Marie.The place was warm and comfortable, but over it all hung theindescribable odor of drugs that meant illness. He rememberedthat the boy was frail.

Marie turned as he stopped in the salon doorway, and then rose,white-faced. Across the wide spaces of the room they eyed eachother. Marie's crisis had come. Like all crises it was biggerthan speech. It was after a distinct pause that she spoke.

"Hast thou brought the police?"

Curiously human, curiously masculine at least was Stewart'smental condition at that moment. He had never loved the girl; itwas with tremendous relief he had put her out of his life. Andyet--

"So it's old Peter now, is it?"

"No, no, not that, Walter. He has given me shelter, that is all.I swear it. I look after the boy."

"Who else is here?"

"No one else; but--"

"Tell that rot to some one who does not know you."

"It is true. He never even looks at me. I am wicked, but I do notlie." There was a catch of hope in her voice. Marie knew mensomewhat, but she still cherished the feminine belief thatjealousy is love, whereas it is only injured pride. She took astep toward him. "Walter, I am sorry. Do you hate me?" She haddropped the familiar "thou."

Stewart crossed the room until only Peter's table and lamp stoodbetween them.

"I didn't mean to be brutal," he said, rather largely, entirelyconscious of his own magnanimity. "It was pretty bad up there andI know it. I don't hate you, of course. That's hardly possibleafter--everything."

"You--would take me back?"

"No. It's over, Marie. I wanted to know where you were, that'sall; to see that you were comfortable and not frightened. You'rea silly child to think of the police."

Marie put a hand to her throat.

"It is the American, of course."

"Yes."

She staggered a trifle, recovered, threw up her head. "Then Iwish I had killed her!"

No man ever violently resents the passionate hate of one womanfor her rival in his affections. Stewart, finding the situationin hand and Marie only feebly formidable, was rather amused andflattered by the honest fury in her voice. The mouse was underhis paw; he would play a bit. "You'll get over feeling that way,kid. You don't really love me."

"You were my God, that is all."

"Will you let me help you--money, I mean?"

"Keep it for her."

"Peter will be here in a minute." He bent over the table and eyedher with his old, half-bullying, half-playful manner. "Come roundhere and kiss me for old times."

"No!"

"Come."

She stood stubbornly still, and Stewart, still smiling, took astep or two toward her. Then he stopped, ceased smiling, drewhimself up.

"You are quite right and I'm a rotter." Marie's English did notcomprehend "rotter," but she knew the tone. "Listen, Marie, I'vetold the other girl, and there's a chance for me, anyhow. Someday she may marry me. She asked me to see you."

"I do not wish her pity."

"You are wasting your life here. You cannot marry, you say,without a dot. There is a chance in America for a clever girl.You are clever, little Marie. The first money I can spare I'llsend you--if you'll take it. It's all I can do."

This was a new Stewart, a man she had never known. Marie recoiledfrom him, eyed him nervously, sought in her childish mind for anexplanation. When at last she understood that he was sincere, shebroke down. Stewart, playing a new part and raw in it, found thesituation irritating. But Marie's tears were not entirely bitter.Back of them her busy young mind was weaving a new warp of life,with all of America for its loom. Hope that had died lived again.Before her already lay that great country where women might laborand live by the fruit of their labor, where her tawdry past wouldbe buried in the center of distant Europe. New life beckoned tothe little Marie that night in the old salon of Maria Theresa,beckoned to her as it called to Stewart, opportunity to one, loveand work to the other. To America!

"I will go," she said at last simply. "And I will not trouble youthere."

"Good!" Stewart held out his hand and Marie took it. With a quickgesture she held it to her cheek, dropped it.

Peter came back half an hour later, downcast but not hopeless. Hehad not found Harmony, but life was not all gray. She was well,still in Vienna, and--she had come back! She had cared thenenough to come back. To-morrow he would commence again, wouldcomb the city fine, and when he had found her he would bring herback, the wanderer, to a marvelous welcome.

He found Stewart gone, and Marie feverishly overhauling her fewbelongings by the salon lamp. She turned to him a face stillstained with tears but radiant with hope.

"Peter," she said gravely, "I must prepare my outfit. I go toAmerica."

"With Stewart?"

"Alone, Peter, to work, to be very good, to be something. I amvery happy, although--Peter, may I kiss you?"

"Certainly," said Peter, and took her caress gravely, patting herthin shoulder. His thoughts were in the garden with Harmony, whohad cared enough to come back.

"Life," said Peter soberly, "life is just one damned thing afteranother, isn't it?"

But Marie was anxiously examining the hem of a skirt.

The letter from Anita reached Stewart the following morning. Shesaid:--

"I have been thinking things over, Walter, and I am going to hurtyou very much--but not, believe me, without hurting myself.Perhaps my uppermost thought just now is that I am disappointingyou, that I am not so big as you thought I would be. For now, inthis final letter, I can tell you how much I cared. Oh, my dear,I did care!

"But I will not marry you. And when this reaches you I shall havegone very quietly out of your life. I find that such philosophyas I have does not support me to-night, that all my little rulesof life are inadequate. Individual liberty was one--but there isno liberty of the individual. Life--other lives--press tooclosely. You, living your life as seemed best and easiest, andcarrying down with you into shipwreck the little Marieand--myself!

"For, face to face with the fact, I cannot accept it, Walter. Itis not only a question of my past against yours. It is of steadyrevolt and loathing of the whole thing; not the flash of protestbefore one succumbs to the inevitable, but a deep-seated hatredthat is a part of me and that would never forget.

"You say that you are the same man I would have married, onlymore honest for concealing nothing. But--and forgive me this, itinsists on coming up in my mind--were you honest, really? Youtold me, and it took courage, but wasn't it partly fear? Whatmotive is unmixed? Honesty--and fear, Walter. You were preparingagainst a contingency, although you may not admit this toyourself.

"I am not passing judgment on you. God forbid that I should! I amonly trying to show you what is in my mind, and that this breakis final. The revolt is in myself, against something sordid andhorrible which I will not take into my life. And for that reasontime will make no difference.

"I am not a child, and I am not unreasonable. But I ask a greatdeal of this life of mine that stretches ahead, Walter--home andchildren, the love of a good man, the fulfillment of my ideals.And you ask me to start with a handicap. I cannot do it. I knowyou are resentful, but--I know that you understand.

"ANITA."

CHAPTER XXV

The little Georgiev was in trouble those days. The Balkan enginewas threatening to explode, but continued to gather steam, withBulgaria sitting on the safety-valve. Austria was mobilizingtroops, and there were long conferences in the Burg between theEmperor and various bearded gentlemen, while the military prayedin the churches for war.

The little Georgiev hardly ate or slept. Much hammering went onall day in the small room below Harmony's on the Wollbadgasse. Atnight, when the man in the green velours hat took a little sleep,mysterious packages were carried down the whitewashed staircaseand loaded into wagons waiting below. Once on her window-sillHarmony found among the pigeons a carrier pigeon with a brasstube fastened to its leg.

On the morning after Harmony's flight from the garden in theStreet of Seven Stars, she received a visit from Georgiev. Shehad put in a sleepless night, full of heart-searching. Shecharged herself with cowardice in running away from Peter andJimmy when they needed her, and in going back like a thief thenight before. The conviction that the boy was not so well broughtwith it additional introspection--her sacrifice seemed useless,almost childish. She had fled because two men thought itnecessary, in order to save her reputation, to marry her; and shedid not wish to marry. Marriage was fatal to the career she hadpromised herself, had been promised. But this career, for whichshe had given up everything else--would she find it in theworkroom of a dressmaker?

Ah, but there was more to it than that. Suppose--how her cheeksburned when she thought of it!--suppose she had taken Peter athis word and married him? What about Peter's career? Was thereany way by which Peter's poverty for one would be comfort fortwo? Was there any reason why Peter, with his splendid ability,should settle down to the hack-work of general practice, the veryslough out of which he had so painfully climbed?

Either of two things--go back to Peter, but not to marry him, orstay where she was. How she longed to go back only Harmony knew.There in the little room, with only the pigeons to see, she heldout her arms longingly. "Peter!" she said. "Peter, dear!"

She decided, of course, to stay where she was, a burden to noone. The instinct of the young girl to preserve her good name atany cost outweighed the vision of Peter at the window, haggardand tired, looking out. It was Harmony's chance, perhaps, to do abig thing; to prove herself bigger than her fears, stronger thanconvention. But she was young, bewildered, afraid. And there wasthis element, stronger than any of the others--Peter had nevertold her he loved her. To go back, throwing herself again on hismercy, was unthinkable. On his love--that was different. But whatif he did not love her? He had been good to her; but then Peterwas good to every one.

There was something else. If the boy was worse what about hismother? Whatever she was or had been, she was his mother. Supposehe were to die and his mother not see him? Harmony's sense offairness rebelled. In the small community at home mother wassacred, her claims insistent.

It was very early, hardly more than dawn. The pigeons cooed onthe sill; over the ridge of the church roof, across, a luminousstrip foretold the sun. An oxcart, laden with vegetables for themarket, lumbered along the streets. Puzzled and unhappy, Harmonyrose and lighted her fire, drew on her slippers and the fadedsilk kimono with the pink butterflies.

In the next room the dressmaker still slept, dreaming earlymorning dreams of lazy apprentices, overdue bills, complainingcustomers.

Harmony moved lightly not to disturb her. She set her room inorder, fed the pigeons,--it was then she saw the carrier with itsmessage,--made her morning coffee by setting the tiny pot insidethe stove. And all the time, moving quietly through her morningroutine, she was there in that upper room in body only.

In soul she was again in the courtyard back of the old lodge, inthe Street of Seven Stars, with the rabbits stirring in thehutch, and Peter, with rapt eyes, gazing out over the city. Bed,toilet-table, coffee-pot, Peter; pigeons, rolls, Peter; sunriseover the church roof, and Peter again. Always Peter!

Monia Reiff was stirring in the next room. Harmony could hearher, muttering and putting coal on the stove and calling to theHungarian maid for breakfast. Harmony dressed hastily. It was oneof her new duties to prepare the workroom for the day. Theluminous streak above the church was rose now, time for the dayto begin.

She was not certain at once that some one had knocked at thedoor, so faint was the sound.

It was the little Georgiev, very apologetic, rather gray of face.He stood in the doorway with his finger on his lips, one eartoward the stairway. It was very silent. Monia was drinking hercoffee in bed, whither she had retired for warmth.

"Pardon!" said the Bulgarian in a whisper. "I listened until Iheard you moving about. Ah, Fraulein, that I must disturb you!"

"Not yet. I fear it is about to happen. Fraulein, do me the honorto open your window. My pigeon comes now to you to be fed, and Ifear--on the sill, Fraulein."

Harmony opened the window. The wild pigeons scattered at once,but the carrier, flying out a foot or two, came back promptly andset about its breakfast.

"Will he let me catch him?"

"Pardon, Fraulein, If I may enter--"

"Come in, of course."

Evidently the defection of the carrier had been serious. Ahandful of grain on a wrong window-sill, and kingdoms overthrown!Georgiev caught the pigeon and drew the message from the tube.Even Harmony grasped the seriousness of the situation. The littleBulgarian's face, from gray became livid; tiny beads of coldsweat came out on his forehead.

"What have I done?" cried Harmony. "Oh, what have I done? If Ihad known about the pigeon--"

Georgiev recovered himself.

"The Fraulein can do nothing wrong," he said. "It is a matter ofan hour's delay, that is all. It may not be too late."

Monia Reiff, from the next room, called loudly for more coffee.The sulky Hungarian brought it without a glance in theirdirection.

"Too late for what?"

"Fraulein, if I may trouble you--but glance from the window tothe street below. It is of an urgency, or I--Please, Fraulein!"

"Only a man in a green hat," she said. "And down the street agroup of soldiers."

"Ah!"

The situation dawned on the girl then, at least partially.

"They are coming for you?"

"It is possible. But there are many soldiers in Vienna."

"And I with the pigeon--Oh, it's too horrible! Herr Georgiev,stay here in this room. Lock the door. Monia will say that it ismine--"

"Ah no, Fraulein! It is quite hopeless. Nor is it a matter of thepigeon. It is war, Fraulein. Do not distress yourself. It is buta matter of--imprisonment."

"There must be something I can do," desperately. "I hear thembelow. Is there no way to the roof, no escape?"

"None, Fraulein. It was an oversight. War is not my game; I am aman of peace. You have been very kind to me, Fraulein. I thankyou."

"You are not going down!"

"Pardon, but it is better so. Soldiers they are of the provincesmostly, and not for a lady to confront."

"They are coming up!"

He listened. The clank of scabbards against the stone stairs wasunmistakable. The little Georgiev straightened, threw out hischest, turned to descend, faltered, came back a step or two.

His small black eyes were fixed on Harmony's face.

"Fraulein," he said huskily, "you are very lovely. I carry alwaysin my heart your image. Always so long as I live. Adieu."

He drew his heels together, gave a stiff little bow and was gonedown the staircase. Harmony was frightened, stricken. Shecollapsed in a heap on the floor of her room, her fingers in herears. But she need not have feared. The little Georgiev made noprotest, submitted to the inevitable like a gentleman and asoldier, went out of her life, indeed, as unobtrusively as he hadentered it.

The carrier pigeon preened itself comfortably on the edge of thewashstand. Harmony ceased her hysterical crying at last andpondered what was best to do. Monia was still breakfasting soincredibly brief are great moments. After a little thoughtHarmony wrote a tiny message, English, German, and French, andinclosed it in the brass tube.

"The Herr Georgiev has been arrested," she wrote. An hour laterthe carrier rose lazily from the window-sill, flapped its wayover the church roof and disappeared, like Georgiev, out of herlife. Grim-visaged war had touched her and passed on.

The incident was not entirely closed, however. A search of thebuilding followed the capture of the little spy. Protestingtenants were turned out, beds were dismantled, closets searched,walls sounded for hidden hollows. In one room on Harmony's floorwas found stored a quantity of ammunition.

It was when the three men who had conducted the search hadfinished, when the boxes of ammunition had been gathered in thehall, and the chattering sewing-girls had gone back to work, thatHarmony, on her way to her dismantled room, passed through theupper passage.

She glanced down the staircase where little Georgiev had somanfully descended.

"I carry always in my heart your image. Always so long as Ilive."

The clatter of soldiers on their way down to the street came toher ears; the soft cooing of the pigeons, the whirr ofsewing-machines from the workroom. The incident was closed,except for the heap of ammunition boxes on the landing, guardedby an impassive soldier.

Harmony glanced at him. He was eying her steadily, thumbs in,heels in, toes out, chest out. Harmony put her hand to her heart.

"You!" she said.

The conversation of a sentry, save on a holiday is, "Yea, yea,"and "Nay, nay."

It was in Harmony's mind to ask all her hungry heart craved tolearn--of Peter, of Jimmy, of the Portier, of anything thatbelonged to the old life in the Siebensternstrasse. But there wasno time. The sentry's impassive face became rigid; he lookedthrough her, not at her. Harmony turned.

The man in the green hat was coming up the staircase. There wasno further chance to question. The sentry was set to carrying theboxes down the staircase.

Full morning now, with the winter sun shining on the beggars inthe market, on the crowds in the parks, on the flower sellers inthe Stephansplatz; shining on Harmony's golden head as she bentover a bit of chiffon, on the old milkwoman carrying up thewhitewashed staircase her heavy cans of milk; on the carrierpigeon winging its way to the south; beating in through bars tothe exalted face of Herr Georgiev; resting on Peter's droopingshoulders, on the neglected mice and the wooden soldier, on theclosed eyes of a sick child--the worshiped sun, peeringforth--the golden window of the East.

CHAPTER XXVI

Jimmy was dying. Peter, fighting hard, was beaten at last. Allthrough the night he had felt it; during the hours before thedawn there had been times when the small pulse wavered,flickered, almost ceased. With the daylight there had been atrifle of recovery, enough for a bit of hope, enough to makeharder Peter's acceptance of the inevitable.

The boy was very happy, quite content and comfortable. When heopened his eyes he smiled at Peter, and Peter, gray of face,smiled back. Peter died many deaths that night.

At daylight Jimmy fell into a sleep that was really stupor.Marie, creeping to the door in the faint dawn, found the boyapparently asleep and Peter on his knees beside the bed. Heraised his head at her footstep and the girl was startled at thesuffering in his face. He motioned her back.

"But you must have a little sleep, Peter."

"No. I'll stay until--Go back to bed. It is very early."

Peter had not been able after all to secure the Nurse Elisabet,and now it was useless. At eight o'clock he let Marie take hisplace, then he bathed and dressed and prepared to face anotherday, perhaps another night. For the child's release came slowly.He tried to eat breakfast, but managed only a cup of coffee.

Many things had come to Peter in the long night, and one wasinsistent--the boy's mother was in Vienna and he was dyingwithout her. Peter might know in his heart that he had done thebest thing for the child, but like Harmony his early training wasrising now to accuse him. He had separated mother and child. Whowas he to have decided the mother's unfitness, to have playeddestiny? How lightly he had taken the lives of others in hishand, and to what end? Harmony, God knows where; the boy dyingwithout his mother. Whatever that mother might be, her place thatday was with her boy. What a wreck he had made of things! He washumbled as well as stricken, poor Peter!

In the morning he sent a note to McLean, asking him to try totrace the mother and inclosing the music-hall clipping and theletter. The letter, signed only "Mamma," was not helpful. Theclipping might prove valuable.

"And for Heaven's sake be quick," wrote Peter. "This is a matterof hours. I meant well, but I've done a terrible thing. Bringher, Mac, no matter what she is or where you find her." ThePortier carried the note. When he came up to get it he brought inhis pocket a small rabbit and a lettuce leaf. Never before hadthe combination failed to arouse and amuse the boy. He carriedthe rabbit down again sorrowfully. "He saw it not," he reportedsadly to his wife. "Be off to the church while I deliver thisletter. And this rabbit we will not cook, but keep inremembrance."

At eleven o'clock Marie called Peter, who was asleep on thehorsehair sofa.

"He asks for you."

Peter was instantly awake and on his feet. The boy's eyes wereopen and fixed on him.

"Is it another day?" he asked.

"Yes, boy; another morning."

"I am cold, Peter."

They blanketed him, although the room was warm. From where he layhe could see the mice. He watched them for a moment. Poor Peter,very humble, found himself wondering in how many ways he had beenremiss. To see this small soul launched into eternity without aforeword, without a bit of light for the journey! Peter'sreligion had been one of life and living, not of creed.

Marie, bringing jugs of hot water, bent over Peter.

"He knows, poor little one!" she whispered.

And so, indeed, it would seem. The boy, revived by a spoonful ortwo of broth, asked to have the two tame mice on the bed. Peter,opening the cage, found one dead, very stiff and stark. Thecatastrophe he kept from the boy.

"One is sick, Jimmy boy," he said, and placed the mate, forlornand shivering, on the pillow. After a minute:--

"If the sick one dies will it go to heaven?"

"Yes, honey, I think so."

The boy was silent for a time. Thinking was easier than speech.His mind too worked slowly. It was after a pause, while he laythere with closed eyes, that Peter saw two tears slip from underhis long lashes. Peter bent over and wiped them away, a greatache in his heart.

"What is it, dear?"

"I'm afraid--it's going to die!"

"Would that be so terrible, Jimmy boy?" asked Peter gently. "Togo to heaven, where there is no more death or dying, where it isalways summer and the sun always shines?"

No reply for a moment. The little mouse sat up on the pillow andrubbed its nose with a pinkish paw. The baby mice in the cagenuzzled their dead mother.

"Is there grass?"

"Yes--soft green grass."

"Do--boys in heaven--go in their bare feet?" Ah, small mind andheart, so terrified and yet so curious!

"Indeed, yes." And there on his knees beside the white bed Peterpainted such a heaven as no theologue has ever had the humanityto paint--a heaven of babbling brooks and laughing, playingchildren, a heaven of dear departed puppies and resurrectedbirds, of friendly deer, of trees in fruit, of speckled fish inbright rivers. Painted his heaven with smiling eyes and death inhis heart, a child's heaven of games and friendly Indians, ofsunlight and rain, sweet sleep and brisk awakening.

The boy listened. He was silent when Peter had finished. Speechwas increasingly an effort.

"I should--like--to go there," he whispered at last.

He did not speak again during all the long afternoon, but just atdusk he roused again.

"I would like--to see--the sentry," he said with difficulty.

And so again, and for the last time, Rosa's soldier from Salzburgwith one lung.

Through all that long day, then, Harmony sat over her work,unaccustomed muscles aching, the whirring machines in her ears.Monia, upset over the morning's excitement, was irritable andunreasonable. The gold-tissue costume had come back from LeGrande with a complaint. Below in the courtyard all day curiousgroups stood gaping up the staircase, where the morning had seensuch occurrences.

At the noon hour, while the girls heated soup and carried inpails of salad from the corner restaurant, Harmony had falleninto the way of playing for them. To the music-loving Viennesegirls this was the hour of the day. To sit back, soup bowl onknee, the machines silent, Monia quarreling in the kitchen withthe Hungarian servant, and while the pigeons ate crusts on thewindow-sills, to hear this American girl play such music as wasplayed at the opera, her slim figure swaying, her whole beautifulface and body glowing with the melody she made, the girls foundthe situation piquant, altogether delightful. Although she didnot suspect it, many rumors were rife about Harmony in theworkroom. She was not of the people, they said--the daughter of agreat American, of course, run away to escape a lovelessmarriage. This was borne out by the report of one of them who hadglimpsed the silk petticoat. It was rumored also that she wore nochemise, but instead an infinitely coquettish series of lace andnainsook garments--of a fineness!

Harmony played for them that day, played, perhaps, as she had notplayed since the day she had moved the master to tears, played toPeter as she had seen him at the window, to Jimmy, to the littleGeorgiev as he went down the staircase. And finally with a chokein her throat to the little mother back home, so hopeful, soignorant.

In the evening, as was her custom, she took the one real meal ofthe day at the corner restaurant, going early to avoid the crowdand coming back quickly through the winter night. The staircasewas always a peril, to be encountered and conquered night afternight and even in the daytime not to be lightly regarded. On herway up this night she heard steps ahead, heavy, measured stepsthat climbed steadily without pauses. For an instant Harmonythought it sounded like Peter's step and she went dizzy.

But it was not Peter. Standing in the upper hall, much as he hadstood that morning over the ammunition boxes, thumbs in, heelsin, toes out, chest out, was the sentry.

Harmony's first thought was of Georgiev and more searching of thebuilding. Then she saw that the sentry's impassive face worelines of trouble. He saluted. "Please, Fraulein."

"Yes?"

"I have not told the Herr Doktor."

"I thank you."

"But the child dies."

"Jimmy?"

"He dies all of last night and to-day. To-night, it is, perhaps,but of moments."

Harmony clutched at the iron stair-rail for support. "You aresure? You are not telling me so that I will go back?"

"He dies, Fraulein. The Herr Doktor has not slept for many hours.My wife, Rosa, sits on the stair to see that none disturb, andher cousin, the wife of the Portier, weeps over the stove.Please, Fraulein, come with me."

"When did you leave the Siebensternstrasse?"

"But now."

"And he still lives?"

"Ja, Fraulein, and asks for you."

Now suddenly fell away from the girl all pride, all fear, allthat was personal and small and frightened, before the reality ofdeath. She rose, as women by divine gift do rise, to the crisis;ceased trembling, got her hat and coat and her shabby gloves andjoined the sentry again. Another moment's delay--to secure the LeGrande's address from Monia. Then out into the night, Harmony tothe Siebensternstrasse, the tall soldier to find the dancer ather hotel, or failing that, at the Ronacher Music-Hall.

Harmony took a taxicab--nothing must be spared now--bribed thechauffeur to greater speed, arrived at the house and ran acrossthe garden, still tearless, up the stairs, past Rosa on the upperflight, and rang the bell.

Marie admitted her with only a little gasp of surprise. There wasnothing to warn Peter. One moment he sat by the bed, watch inhand, alone, drear, tragic-eyed. The next he had glanced up, sawHarmony and went white, holding to the back of his chair. Theireyes met, agony and hope in them, love and death, rapture andbitterness. In Harmony's, pleading, promise, something of doubt;in Peter's, only yearning, as of empty arms. Then Harmony daredto look at the bed and fell on her knees in a storm of griefbeside it. Peter bent over and gently stroked her hair.

Le Grande was singing; the boxes were full. In the body of theimmense theater waiters scurried back and forward among thetables. Everywhere was the clatter of silver and steel onporcelain, the clink of glasses. Smoke was everywhere--pipes,cigars, cigarettes. Women smoked between bites at the tables,using small paper or silver mouthpieces, even a gold one shonehere and there. Men walked up and down among the diners, sprayingthe air with chemicals to clear it. At a table just below thestage sat the red-bearded Dozent with the lady of the photograph.They were drinking cheap native wines and were very happy.

From the height of his worldly wisdom he was explaining thepeople to her.

"In the box--don't stare, Liebchen, he looks--is the princeling Ihave told you of. Roses, of course. Last night it was orchids."

"Last night! Were you here?" He coughed.

"I have been told, Liebchen. Each night he sits there, and whenshe finishes her song he rises in the box, kisses the flowers andtosses them to her."

"Shameless! Is she so beautiful?"

"No. But you shall see. She comes."

Le Grande was very popular. She occupied the best place on theprogram; and because she sang in American, which is not exactlyEnglish and more difficult to understand, her songs wereconsidered exceedingly risque. As a matter of fact they weremerely ragtime melodies, with a lilt to them that caught theViennese fancy, accustomed to German sentinental ditties and theartificial forms of grand opera. And there was another reason forher success. She carried with her a chorus of a dozenpickaninnies.

In Austria darkies were as rare as cats, and there were no cats!So the little chorus had made good.

Each day she walked in the Prater, ermine from head to foot, andbehind her two by two trailed twelve little Southern darkies inred-velvet coats and caps, grinning sociably. When she drove apair sat on the boot.

Her voice was strong, not sweet, spoiled by years of singingagainst dishes and bottles in smoky music halls; spoiled bycigarettes and absinthe and foreign cocktails that resembledtheir American prototypes as the night resembles the day.

She wore the gold dress, decolletee, slashed to the knee overrhinestone-spangled stockings. And back of her trailed the twelvelittle darkies.

She sang "Dixie," of course, and the "Old Folks at Home"; then aragtime medley, with the chorus showing rows of white teeth andclogging with all their short legs. Le Grande danced to that, awhirling, nimble dance. The little rhinestones on her stockingsflashed; her opulent bosom quivered. The Dozent, eyes on thedancer, squeezed his companion's hand.

"I love thee!" he whispered, rather flushed.

And then she sang "Doan ye cry, mah honey." Her voice, rathercoarse but melodious, lent itself to the negro rhythm, the swingand lilt of the lullaby. The little darkies, eyes rolling,preternaturally solemn, linked arms and swayed rhythmically,right, left, right, left. The glasses ceased clinking; sturdycitizens forgot their steak and beer for a moment and listened,knife and fork poised. Under the table the Dozent's hand pressedits captive affectionately, his eyes no longer on Le Grande, buton the woman across, his sweetheart, she who would be mother ofhis children. The words meant little to the audience; the rich,rolling Southern lullaby held them rapt:--

She picked the tiniest darky up and held him, woolly head againsther breast, and crooned to him, rocking on her jeweled heels. Thecrowd applauded; the man in the box kissed his flowers and flungthem. Glasses and dishes clinked again.

The Dozent bent across the table.

"Some day--" he said.

The girl blushed.

Le Grande made her way into the wings, surrounded by her littletroupe. A motherly colored woman took them, shooed them off,rounded them up like a flock of chickens.

And there in the wings, grimly impassive, stood a private soldierof the old Franz Josef, blocking the door to her dressing room.For a moment gold dress and dark blue-gray uniform confrontedeach other. Then the sentry touched his cap.

"Madam," he said, "the child is in the Riebensternstrasse andto-night he dies."

"What child?" Her arms were full of flowers.

"The child from the hospital. Please to make haste."

Jimmy died an hour after midnight, quite peacefully, died withone hand in Harmony's and one between Peter's two big ones.

Toward the last he called Peter "Daddy" and asked for a drink.His eyes, moving slowly round the room, passed without notice thegrayfaced woman in a gold dress who stood staring down at him,rested a moment on the cage of mice, came to a stop in thedoorway, where stood the sentry, white and weary, but refusingrest.

It was Harmony who divined the child's unspoken wish.

"The manual?" she whispered.

The boy nodded. And so just inside the door of the bedroom acrossfrom the old salon of Maria Theresa the sentry, with sad eyes butno lack of vigor, went again through the Austrian manual of arms,and because he had no carbine he used Peter's old walking-stick.

When it was finished the boy smiled faintly, tried to salute, laystill.

CHAPTER XXVII

Peter was going back to America and still he had not told Harmonyhe loved her. It was necessary that he go back. His money hadabout given out, and there was no way to get more save by earningit. The drain of Jimmy's illness, the inevitable expense of thesmall grave and the tiny stone Peter had insisted on buying, hadmade retreat his only course. True, Le Grande had wished todefray all expenses, but Peter was inexorable. No money earned asthe dancer earned hers should purchase peaceful rest for theloved little body. And after seeing Peter's eyes the dancer hadnot insisted.

A week had seen many changes. Marie was gone. After a conferencebetween Stewart and Peter that had been decided on. Stewartraised the money somehow, and Peter saw her off, palpitant andeager, with the pin he had sent her to Semmering at her throat.She kissed Peter on the cheek in the station, rather to hisembarrassment. From the lowered window, as the train pulled out,she waved a moist handkerchief.

"I shall be very good," she promised him. The last words he heardabove the grinding of the train were her cheery: "To America!"

Peter was living alone in the Street of Seven Stars, getting foodwhere he might happen to be, buying a little now and then fromthe delicatessen shop across the street. For Harmony had goneback to the house in the Wollbadgasse. She had stayed until allwas over and until Marie's small preparations for departure wereover. Then, while Peter was at the station, she slipped awayagain. But this time she left her address. She wrote:--

"You will come to visit me, dear Peter, because I was so lonelybefore and that is unnecessary now. But you must know that Icannot stay in the Siebensternstrasse. We have each our own fightto make, and you have been trying to fight for us all, for Marie,for dear little Jimmy, for me. You must get back to work now; youhave lost so much time. And I am managing well. The FrauProfessor is back and will take an evening lesson, and soon Ishall have more money from Fraulein Reiff. You can see how thingsare looking up for me. In a few months I shall be able to renewmy music lessons. And then, Peter,--the career!

"HARMONY."

Her address was beneath.

Peter had suffered much. He was thinner, grayer, and as he stoodwith the letter in his hand he felt that Harmony was right. Hecould offer her nothing but his shabby self, his problematicfuture. Perhaps, surely, everything would have been settled,without reason, had he only once taken the girl in his arms, toldher she was the breath of life itself to him. But adversity,while it had roused his fighting spirit in everything else, hadsapped his confidence.

He had found the letter on his dressing-table, and he foundhimself confronting his image over it, a tall, stooping figure, atired, lined face, a coat that bore the impress of many days witha sick child's head against its breast.

So it was over. She had come back and gone again, and this timehe must let her go. Who was he to detain her? She would carryherself on to success, he felt; she had youth, hope, beauty andability. And she had proved the thing he had not dared tobelieve, that she could take care of herself in the old city.Only--to go away and leave her there!

McLean would remain. No doubt he already had Harmony's address inthe Wollbadgasse. Peter was not subtle, no psychologist, but hehad seen during the last few days how the boy watched Harmony'severy word, every gesture. And, perhaps, when loneliness and hardwork began to tell on her, McLean's devotion would win itsreward. McLean's devotion, with all that it meant, the lessonsagain, community of taste, their common youth! Peter felt old,very tired.

Nevertheless he went that night to the Wollbadgasse. He sent hisgray suit to the Portier's wife to be pressed, and getting outhis surgical case, as he had once before in the Pension Schwarz,he sewed a button on his overcoat, using the curved needle andthe catgut and working with surgeon's precision. Then, stillworking very carefully, he trimmed the edges of graying hair overhis ears, trimmed his cuffs, trimmed his best silk tie, nowalmost hopeless. He blacked his shoes, and the suit not coming,he donned his dressing-gown and went into Jimmy's room to feedthe mice. Peter stood a moment beside the smooth white bed withhis face working. The wooden sentry still stood on the bedsidetable.

It was in Peter's mind to take the mice to Harmony, confess hisdefeat and approaching retreat, and ask her to care for them.Then he decided against this palpable appeal for sympathy,elected to go empty-handed and discover merely how comfortableshe was or was not. When the time came he would slip out of herlife, sending her a letter and leaving McLean on guard.

Harmony was at home. Peter climbed the dark staircase--whereHarmony had met the little Georgiev, and where he had gone downto his death--climbed steadily, but without his usual elasticity.The place appalled him--its gloom, its dinginess, its somberquiet. In the daylight, with the pigeons on the sills and themorning sunlight printing the cross of the church steeple on thewhitewashed wall, it was peaceful, cloisterlike, with landingsthat were crypts. But at night it was almost terrifying, thatstaircase.

Harmony was playing. Peter heard her when he reached the upperlanding, playing a sad little strain that gripped his heart. Hewaited outside before ringing, heard her begin somethingdeterminedly cheerful, falter, cease altogether. Peter rang.

Harmony herself admitted him. Perhaps--oh, certainly she hadexpected him! It would be Peter, of course, to come and see howshe was getting on, how she was housed. She held out her hand andPeter took it. Still no words, only a half smile from her and nosmile at all from Peter, but his heart in his eyes.

"I hoped you would come, Peter. We may have the reception room."

"You knew I would come," said Peter. "The reception room?"

"Where customers wait." She still carried her violin, and slippedback to her room to put it away. Peter had a glimpse of itspoverty and its meagerness. He drew a long breath.

Monia was at the opera, and the Hungarian sat in the kitchenknitting a stocking. The reception room was warm from the day'sfire, and in order. All the pins and scraps of the day had beenswept up, and the portieres that made fitting-rooms of thecorners were pushed back. Peter saw only a big room with emptycorners, and that at a glance. His eyes were Harmony's.

He sat down awkwardly on a stiff chair, Harmony on a velvetsettee. They were suddenly two strangers meeting for the firsttime. In the squalor of the Pension Schwarz, in the comfortableintimacies of the Street of Seven Stars, they had been easy,unconstrained. Now suddenly Peter was tongue-tied. Only one thingin him clamored for utterance, and that he sternly silenced.

"I--I could not stay there, Peter. You understood?"

"No. Of course, I understood."

"You were not angry?"

"Why should I be angry? You came, like an angel of light, when Ineeded you. Only, of course,--"

"Yes?"

"I'll not say that, I think."

"Please say it, Peter!"

Peter writhed; looked everywhere but at her.

"Please, Peter. You said I always came when you needed me,only--"

"Only--I always need you!" Peter, Peter!

"Not always, I think. Of course, when one is in trouble one needsa woman; but--"

"Well, of course--but--I'm generally in trouble, Harry dear."

Frightfully ashamed of himself by that time was Peter, ashamed ofhis weakness. He sought to give a casual air to the speech bystooping for a neglected pin on the carpet. By the time he hadstuck it in his lapel he had saved his mental forces from therout of Harmony's eyes.

His next speech he made to the center table, and missed a mostdelectable look in the aforesaid eyes.

"I didn't come to be silly," he said to the table. "I hate peoplewho whine, and I've got into a damnable habit of being sorry formyself! It's to laugh, isn't it, a great, hulking carcass likeme, to be--"

"Peter," said Harmony softly, "aren't you going to look at me?"

"I'm afraid."

"That's cowardice. And I've fixed my hair a new way. Do you likeit?"

"Splendid," said Peter to the center table.

"You didn't look!"

The rout of Harmony's eyes was supplemented by the rout ofHarmony's hair. Peter, goaded, got up and walked about. Harmonywas half exasperated; she would have boxed Peter's ears with atender hand had she dared.

His hands thrust savagely in his pockets, Peter turned and facedher at last.

"First of all," he said, "I am going back to America, Harmony.I've got all I can get here, all I came for--" He stopped, seeingher face. "Well, of course, that's not true, I haven't. But I'mgoing back, anyhow. You needn't look so stricken: I haven't lostmy chance. I'll come back sometime again and finish, when I'veearned enough to do it."

"You will never come back, Peter. You have spent all your moneyon others, and now you are going back just where you were,and--you are leaving me here alone!"

"You are alone, anyhow," said Peter, "making your own way andgetting along. And McLean will be here."

"Are you turning me over to him?"

No reply. Peter was pacing the floor.

"Peter!"

"Yes, dear?"

"Do you remember the night in Anna's room at the Schwartz whenyou proposed to me?"

No reply. Peter found another pin.

"And that night in the old lodge when you proposed to me again?"

Peter turned and looked at her, at her slender, swaying youngfigure, her luminous eyes, her parted, childish lips.

"Peter, I want you to--to ask me again."

"No!"

"Why?"

"Now, listen to me, Harmony. You're sorry for me, that's all; Idon't want to be pitied. You stay here and work. You'll do bigthings. I had a talk with the master while I was searching foryou, and he says you can do anything. But he looked at me--and asight I was with worry and fright--and he warned me off, Harmony.He says you must not marry."

"Old pig!" said Harmony. "I will marry if I please."

Nevertheless Peter's refusal and the master's speech had toldsomewhat. She was colder, less vibrant. Peter came to her, stoodclose, looking down at her.

"I've said a lot I didn't mean to," he said. "There's only onething I haven't said, I oughtn't to say it, dear. I'm not goingto marry you--I won't have such a thing on my conscience. But itdoesn't hurt a woman to know that a man loves her. I love you,dear. You're my heaven and my earth--even my God, I'm afraid. ButI will not marry you."

"Not even if I ask you to?"

"Not even then, dear. To share my struggle--"

"I see," slowly. "It is to be a struggle?"

"A hard fight, Harmony. I'm a pauper practically."

"And what am I?"

"Two poverties don't make a wealth, even of happiness," saidPeter steadily. "In the time to come, when you would think ofwhat you might have been, it would be a thousand deaths to me,dear."

"People have married, women have married and carried on theirwork, too, Peter."

"Not your sort of women or your sort of work. And not my sort ofman, Harry. I'm jealous--jealous of every one about you. It wouldhave to be the music or me."

"And you make the choice!" said Harmony proudly. "Very well,Peter, I shall do as you say. But I think it is a very curioussort of love."

"I wonder," Peter cried, "if you realize what love it is thatloves you enough to give you up."

"You have not asked me if I care, Peter."

Peter looked at her. She was very near to tears, very sad, verybeautiful.

"I'm afraid to ask," said Peter, and picking up his hat he madefor the door. There he turned, looked back, was lost.

"My sweetest heart!" he cried, and took her in his hungry arms.But even then, with her arms about his neck at last, with herslender body held to him, her head on his shoulder, his lips toher soft throat, Peter put her from him as a starving man mightput away food.

He held her off and looked at her.

"I'm a fool and a weakling," he said gravely. "I love you so muchthat I would sacrifice you. You are very lovely, my girl, mygirl! As long as I live I shall carry your image in my heart."

Ah, what the little Georgiev had said on his way to the deaththat waited down the staircase. Peter, not daring to look at heragain, put away her detaining hand, squared his shoulders, wentto the door.

"Good-bye, Harmony," he said steadily. "Always in my heart!"

Very near the end now: the little Marie on the way to America,with the recording angel opening a new page in life's ledger forher and a red-ink line erasing the other; with Jimmy and hisdaddy wandering through the heaven of friendly adventure andgreen fields, hand in hand; with the carrier resting after itslabors in the pigeon house by the rose-fields of Sofia; with thesentry casting martial shadows through the barred windows of thehospital; and the little Georgiev, about to die, dividing hisheart, as a heritage, between his country and a young girl.

Very near the end, with the morning light of the next day shininginto the salon of Maria Theresa and on to Peter's open trunk andshabby wardrobe spread over chairs. An end of trunks anddeparture, as was the beginning.

Early morning at the Gottesacker, or God's acre, whence littleJimmy had started on his comfortable journey. Early morning onthe frost-covered grass, the frozen roads, the snap and sparkleof the Donau. Harmony had taken her problem there, in the earlyhour before Monia would summon her to labor--took her problem andfound her answer.

The great cemetery was still and deserted. Harmony, none toowarmly clad, walked briskly, a bunch of flowers in oiled paperagainst the cold. Already the air carried a hint of spring; therewas a feeling of resurrection and promise. The dead earth feltalive under-foot.

Harmony knelt by the grave and said the little prayer the childhad repeated at night and morning. And, because he had loved it,with some vague feeling of giving him comfort, she recited thelittle verse:--

"Ah well! For us all some sweet hope liesDeeply buried from human eyes:And in the hereafter, angels mayRoll the stone from its grave away."

When she looked up Le Grande was standing beside her.

There was no scene, hardly any tears. She had brought out a greatbunch of roses that bore only too clearly the stamp of whencethey came. One of the pickaninnies had carried the box and stoodimpassively by, gazing at Harmony.

Le Grande placed her flowers on the grave. They almost coveredit, quite eclipsed Harmony's.

"I come here every morning," she said simply.

She had a cab waiting, and offered to drive Harmony back to thecity. Her quiet almost irritated Harmony, until she had lookedonce into the woman's eyes. After that she knew. It was on thedrive back, with the little darky on the box beside the driver,that Harmony got her answer.

Le Grande put a hand over Harmony's.

"I tried to tell you before how good I know you were to him."

"We loved him."

"And I resented it. But Dr. Byrne was right--I was not a fitperson to--to have him."

"It was not that--not only that--"

"Did he ever ask for me? But of course not."

"No, he had no remembrance."

Silence for a moment. The loose windows of the cab clattered.

"I loved him very much when he came," said Le Grande, "although Idid not want him. I had been told I could have a career on thestage. Ah, my dear, I chose the career--and look at me! What haveI? A grave in the cemetery back there, and on it roses sent me bya man I loathe! If I could live it over again!"

The answer was very close now:--

"Would you stay at home?"

"Who knows, I being I? And my husband did not love me. It was theboy always. There is only one thing worth while--the love of agood man. I have lived, lived hard. And I know."

"But supposing that one has real ability--I mean some achievementalready, and a promise--"

Le Grande turned and looked at Harmony shrewdly.

"I see. You are a musician, I believe?"

"Yes."

"And--it is Dr. Byrne?"

"Yes."

Le Grande bent forward earnestly.

"My child," she said, "if one man in all the world looked at meas your doctor looks at you, I--I would be a better woman."

"And my music?"

"Play for your children, as you played for my little boy."

Peter was packing: wrapping medical books in old coats, puttingclean collars next to boots, folding pajamas and such-likenegligible garments with great care and putting in his dresscoatin a roll. His pipes took time, and the wooden sentry he packedwith great care and a bit of healthy emotion. Once or twice hecame across trifles of Harmony's, and he put them carefullyaside--the sweater coat, a folded handkerchief, a bow she hadworn at her throat. The bow brought back the night before andthat reckless kiss on her white throat. Well for Peter to getaway if he is to keep his resolution, when the sight of a ribbonbow can bring that look of suffering into his eyes.

The Portier below was polishing floors, right foot, left foot,any foot at all. And as he polished he sang in a throaty tenor.

"Kennst du das Land wo die Citronen bluhen," he sang at the topof his voice, and coughed, a bit of floor wax having got into theair. The antlers of the deer from the wild-game shop hung now inhis bedroom. When the wildgame seller came over for coffee therewould be a discussion probably. But were not the antlers of alldeer similar?

The Portier's wife came to the doorway with a cooking fork in herhand.

"A cab," she announced, "with a devil's imp on the box. Perhapsit is that American dancer. Run and pretty thyself!"

It was too late for more than an upward twist of a mustache.Harmony was at the door, but not the sad-eyed Harmony of a weekbefore or the undecided and troubled girl of before that. Aradiant Harmony, this, who stood in the doorway, who wished themgood-morning, and ran up the old staircase with glowing eyes anda heart that leaped and throbbed. A woman now, this Harmony, onewho had looked on life and learned; one who had chosen her fate and was running to meet it; one who feared only death, not lifeor anything that life could offer.

The door was not locked. Perhaps Peter was not up--not dressed.What did that matter? What did anything matter but Peter himself?

Peter, sorting out lectures on McBurney's Point, had come acrossa bit of paper that did not belong there, and was sitting by hisopen trunk, staring blindly at it:--